“No great mind has ever existed without a touch of madness.”

The first thing I said to Dr. West on Friday was, “Quinn visited me.” Even though what I really wanted to talk about was how horrible I’d been to Beau.

“What? When?”

“Wednesday. He showed up after work.” I took the seat across from her, noting that the air purifier was turned off.

“How is he?”

“I don’t know.” Quinn was better at hiding his thoughts and feelings than I was. “He seemed happy when he talked about Janie and the baby.”

“Did you embrace him?”

“No. I tried to, a few times, but I couldn’t. Every time I got close, I choked.” I breathed out a laugh.

“Is something funny?”

“One of the times I tried to hug my brother, I literally choked. On a chip.”

“Oh no.” Dr. West also breathed a laugh and gave me a sympathetic look. “What happened with the chip?”

“Let me start at the beginning. After work, he followed me to my house. He still thinks—or I’m assuming he still thinks—that I have trouble in public places.”

“Why didn’t you correct him?”

“It didn’t occur to me. I was . . . flustered and upset about what I did to Beau.” Crap. Crap. Crap. There it is. I’m a terrible person.

My chest felt too tight and my molars hurt.

Why do my molars hurt?

Dr. West gave me a commiserating smile, writing something down in her notes. “We’ll get to Beau in a moment. One thing at a time. Tell me what happened with Quinn. You choked on a chip?”

I was thankful for the reprieve. “We arrived at my house and I put out tortilla chips and salsa.”

“Good!”

“Yes,” I agreed, feeling a little proud of myself despite everything.

Before therapy, I’d never been able to think past the worries in my own mind when someone came to my house. Moving past the big anxieties to the normal niceties had felt impossible.

I would focus on things that ultimately didn’t matter during a visit. Did they brush their teeth that morning? When had he or she had their last dental checkup? Were their parents still alive? And, if not, how were they coping with the loss? If a woman was in my house, I worried about her HPV vaccine status.

But Dr. West had provided a checklist of the things I should focus on, like taking a bag or a coat and placing it someplace accessible. Putting out food, offering something to drink, asking about the person’s day.

When she spelled it out for me, it made complete sense. Getting over my embarrassment—for not figuring this out on my own—took me longer.

“Then I offered him something to drink. He said he could get it himself. I’d just taken a bite of a chip as he turned away, and I decided I would try. I could hug him. I felt a sense of clarity, really and truly saw how ridiculous my previous fears and avoidance had been. In that moment I believed it.” And I wanted to do it before the clarity passed, before the doubting voice in my head increased in volume.

“Then what happened?” Dr. West was on the edge of her seat.

“I stepped forward, planning to hug his back, and I took a deep breath, and I . . . inhaled a chip.”

“Oh no.” She set her chin in the palm of her hand, shaking her head. “Don’t beat yourself up too much about it.”

“No. The chip already did that,” I mumbled.

Dr. West sat up straighter, like I’d surprised her, and then barked a laugh. I also laughed, allowing myself to see the humor in the situation. But then I stopped, because ultimately, it had been a disappointing moment. And I’d spent the last two days mourning lost opportunities—not just with Quinn, but with Beau as well.

When she spotted my mood swing, her laughter tapered. Her eyes, both warm and shrewd, examined me.

“I count this as a victory, Shelly. Look at the big picture. You were able to move past being flustered, focus on the checklist, and you had a moment of clarity. Three steps forward, one step back.”

I nodded, seeing her point, but still too raw over the events of the last few days to concede it.

“What else happened? With your brother? What was his reason for coming?”

I dropped my eyes to my hands. “He wants me to move back to Chicago. He wants me to be an aunt to Desmond.”

“That is great. See?”

“What?”

“All your worries about Quinn, about him writing you off, about it being too late to be a part of your family. It’s not too late. Your brother loves you and wants you in his life.”

“Yes. Yes, he does.” I should be happy.

Be happy. Be happy. Be happy.

I felt her eyes on me, still examining. “Why don’t you sound happy about this?”

“I am happy.” I nodded, closing my eyes.

I heard Dr. West flip through her papers. “When you came to me originally, your main goal—and these are your words—was, ‘Frequent, normal, affectionate interaction with my family.’”

“That is still my goal.” And I needed to focus on it. I owed it to my family to put them first.

She was silent for a moment before asking, “What’s going on?”

I opened my eyes and tried to find the right words. “You are here, in Tennessee. I see a difference in myself, and I don’t want to lose that. I’m getting better.”

And then there’s my art space, and my little house, and the auto shop and . . . and Beau.

She considered me for a moment, still warmly, still shrewdly. “Did you show Quinn what you’ve been working on?”

“Yes. He liked them.” I considered the accuracy of my words, then decided to amend my statement. “Actually, he loved the angels. He said he was proud of me, said it was the best thing I have made.”

My face flushed, heated at the memory, but in a good way. After not seeing my brother in two years, I was glad we’d ended the visit with the angels. My brother didn’t smile often, he was more prone to observe than to join. His smiles and praise were a welcomed surprise.

“Do you think he came to check on your progress?”

“No,” I answered honestly. “That is not like Quinn. He knows, despite everything, if I say I’m going to finish a project for a client he’s lined up, I will do it. He did not ask about my progress. I was the one who offered to show him.” It was the least I could do.

“Anything else you want to tell me about the visit with your brother?”

“Two other things happened that you should know about.” A deep breath was required prior to continuing. “He is sending his plane in November for me to go to Chicago and visit. To meet Desmond.”

Concern flashed behind her eyes before she could completely mask it. “How do you feel about that?”

“Hopeful, but worried.”

“Do you think you’re ready?”

“I don’t know.”

Dr. West considered me for a few seconds, her expression blank. “I suggest you be honest with your brother about the fact that you might not be able to hold your nephew—or touch him—while you’re there.”

“I think he knows that.”

“May I suggest you spell it out. Maybe it’s time to sit him down and explain what your diagnosis means, what you’ve been doing about it over the past several months, as well was what your goals are moving forward.”

“I will think about it.”

Her answering smile was warmer, less shrewd. “Good. What is the second thing?”

This was less easy for me to discuss. “When we got to my house, the first thing he did was check my arms and legs.”

Her expression grew sober. “But you understand why he did that.”

“Yes.” I understood, but it didn’t make it any less humiliating. It had been humiliating when Beau tugged my arm toward him in the car on Tuesday, and it had been humiliating when Quinn had insisted checking for new scars on Wednesday.

Dr. West’s gaze turned searching and she repeated something she’d told me at a previous session. “It’s very difficult for people who haven’t lived it to understand why others self-injure. It’s easy to assume all attempts at harm are rooted in suicidal thoughts.”

I don’t want to talk about this.

I slid my teeth to the side, forcing myself to respond. “I know.” But it doesn’t make it any less humiliating.

She must’ve sensed my mood, because she changed the subject. “You said earlier that something happened with Beau?”

“Yes.” I didn’t press my nail into the skin of my wrist, but I really, really wanted to.

“Something about,” she checked her notes, “you said you were upset and flustered about it?”

“Yes. I was very wrong and I need to apologize.”

“This was after I spoke to him on the phone? On Tuesday?”

I rolled my lips between my teeth. Unbidden, the memory of our kiss flooded my consciousness, suffocated me with longing to see him, to do it again, to make things right and apologize.

“It happened Wednesday when we were supposed to go to dinner. But then, right before we left, Quinn showed up and I—” I searched for the right way to explain what had happened. I’d been so surprised to see my brother, surprised and excited, and nervous. And worried. “My mind became too loud. I didn’t forget Beau was there, I forgot I was there. Does that make any sense?”

“Tell me what happened next.”

“Quinn said he needed to speak with me privately. I heard those words, responded to those words, and said yes, then moved to leave with him.”

“And where was Beau at this time?”

“He was in the room.” I groaned this confession, covering my face with my hands and peeked at my therapist through my fingers.

Dr. West leaned back in her chair, her eyes moving over my shoulder. “I see. You and Beau were supposed to go out and Quinn showed up unexpectedly. Focusing on Quinn, you didn’t think about your plans with Beau.”

“Correct.” I rubbed my forehead. “I was so awful, it was awful. When I realized what I had done, I didn’t know what to say. And he looked so hurt.”

“Have you talked to him? Since Wednesday?”

“No. I worked Thursday. He had Thursday off and was scheduled to come in today after I left. He is probably at the shop now.”

“What are you going to do?”

“I was hoping you would tell me that.”

This drew a small laugh from her. “You know it doesn’t work that way, not when what you’re thinking and feeling are completely natural.”

“What is it I’m feeling?”

“You tell me.”

“Remorse. Frustration with myself, that I’m not normal.” I shook my head, studying my fingers. “Maybe he deserves more than I’m capable of giving.” No. I know he deserves more than I’m capable of giving.

“You and I have discussed deserving at great length. And you agreed you would stop deciding what people deserve. What Beau deserves is his choice. What your brother and parents deserve is their choice. You can only be yourself. You must let them decide.”

“You are right.” I nodded fiercely. “I decide what I deserve; they decide what they deserve.” It was a good mantra, so why did it feel like a cop-out? Why did it feel like an excuse for bad behavior?

“What will you do about Beau?”

“. . . Apologize?”

Dr. West grinned, shaking her head at me. “If that’s what you want to do, then apologize.”

“I do want to apologize. He deserves it.”

“And what do you hope will happen after you apologize?”

He’ll kiss me again. And I’ll never make another mistake with him. I’ll be perfect. And he’ll want me.

I twisted my lips to the side. “I hope he gives me another chance.”

“A chance for friendship?”

“No,” I answered without thinking.

Dr. West turned her head slightly, like she’d heard me wrong. “Not friendship?”

“I really want to be with him.”

Ahhhh crap. Crap. Crap. Crap.

Dr. West stared at me with wide eyes for a protracted moment, and then her features were awash with concern.

“Yes, I know. I know this is not part of the plan.” I exhaled a tortured sigh, wincing at the competing and conflicting thoughts in my head, each vying for dominance.

Think of your family. You’re doing this for your family.

But Beau—

You owe them, you need to make things right, you need to be the daughter and sister and aunt they deserve.

But Beau is amazing. Being with him is so . . . effortless. Nothing has ever felt effortless before. And he wants to be with me.

Maybe not anymore, not after what happened Wednesday.

“Shelly . . . I’m worried this is very fast.”

“I’ve known him for over a month.” I didn’t know why I was defending myself. She was right. I knew she was right.

“Yes. And the month has brought many changes. You’ve made it through your first ERP. You’re working with and around people. You’ve made great progress in therapy. Beau is the first person you’ve allowed yourself to touch in a long time. It’s very natural for you to have feelings for him.”

“But?”

“But . . .” she stared at me, holding my gaze, obviously considering her next words very carefully, “is the plan still for you to move back to Chicago? When you’re ready?”

“I’m being selfish.” I glanced at my hands and realized I’d been pressing my thumbnail into my wrist then rubbing my finger over the marks. The ridges soothed me, helped me breathe easier.

“I wouldn’t say that. Tennessee isn’t so far from Chicago. I’m not going to discourage you from living a full life and I do not think you have to choose one or the other. It’s not a choice of being with someone or your family. But I will caution you to take things slowly. Let Beau know you first, let him see who you are before you invest too much.”

“You think what he sees will scare him away?”

“Not at all. Your OCD is a big part of your life, and it always will be to varying degrees, but it isn’t the sum total of who you are. You’re a world-class artist, I’ve read articles describing you as a genius. You’re also a gifted mechanic. You donate your time and money to worthy causes. You’ve fostered countless animals. You have a great deal of empathy and a lot to offer a person.”

I didn’t know why, but I felt like crying. I couldn’t manage anything more than a rough, “Thanks.”

Unexpectedly, Dr. West leaned forward and captured my hand, forcing my gaze to hers. “Let him see these parts of you, give him time to discover how great you are. Then—when or if the obsessive thoughts start—you’ll have a solid foundation. You’ll be able to reason your way through it. You’ll have a level of confidence in him, that he knows who you are and that’s why he’s with you. If you rush into things, it’ll be easy to doubt, both him and yourself.”

“Okay. That makes sense.” I liked how she explained things, how she always had good, logical, defendable reasons. It made believing her so much easier.

“Do you think he’ll still want to help?”

“With my therapy?”

“Yes.” Her expression was patient and encouraging.

“I don’t know.” I took a deep breath, feeling tense about what she had planned.

Are you ready for this?

I didn’t know the answer. We’d drafted the ERP plan for my touch aversion weeks ago, but without someone for me to touch, someone I trusted, I couldn’t initiate it.

As though sensing my reluctance, she asked, “What is it?”

“Specifically, what will you request Beau do? I mean, what is the plan for when he comes next week?”

“Oh, yes, I have a paper for you to give him.” Dr. West pulled a blue folder from her lap and handed it to me. “Please make sure he reads it and that he calls me this week.”

“What is it?”

“Frequently asked questions relating to Exposure and Response Prevention. The paper will give him an overview and when he and I speak on the phone, I’ll go over the details.”

“Okay.”

“Shelly, this is the first step. You understand, this means you will be initiating your ERP plan to overcome touch aversion. Depending on how things go next Friday—and I’m very optimistic based on how much self-directed progress you’ve made—you will be expected to follow the plan between sessions.”

“I understand that.”

She studied me. “The other two options we’ve already discussed—you coming in to the office five times a week for your exercises so you can be monitored, or checking yourself into a facility so you can be monitored—are still on the table.”

“No, I can do this. I’m ready to do this.”

“Please also understand that the only reasons I’m considering this method instead of insisting on one of the others is because it’s been a very long time since you’ve engaged in self-harm and because you’ve shown remarkable ability to follow self-guided ERPs. You’ve resisted the compulsion to self-harm entirely on your own, even when avoidance of touch wasn’t possible. And you’ve always reached out, called me when you’ve felt overwhelmed.”

“Understood.” My knee began to bounce.

This was where I lived my life, being afraid of the things I wanted the most.

I can do this. I can do this. I will do this.

“What’s on your mind, Shelly?” she asked conversationally, like she’d just told me about the chance for precipitation in the forecast.

“It’s just . . . I do not want to use him.”

“Use him how?”

“I don’t want him to feel like I’m using him, for my treatment.”

She gave me a blank stare, like I’d confused her. “But we are going to use him for your treatment.”

“I know, but I do not want him to think that I’m just using him. I would never do that. If he didn’t want to help, I’d still want to be with him.”

Dr. West lifted her chin, like she was absorbing my point. “From what you’ve said about Beau, and from my short conversation with him this week, he seems disposed to think only the best of you, Shelly.”

“That’s just how he is. I do not want to take advantage.”

“But if he wants to help,” she reasoned, like she was trying to lead me to a shared conclusion, “then it’s not taking advantage. Right?”

Right.

I stared at her.

Say it.

I opened my mouth, then closed it, swallowing.

Just say it.

“Shelly?”

“Right.”

She was right, of course. It wouldn’t be taking advantage.

But if he helped me move past this, the most fearsome of my obsessions, how could I ever repay him? What could I possibly offer him in return?